


you are my sun and stars

by SlytherinsDragon



Series: Holmescest Works [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Love, M/M, Memories, Post-Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Post-Wedding, Romance, Sibling Incest, Smut, a bit of dance, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:54:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24904162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/pseuds/SlytherinsDragon
Summary: After John's wedding, Sherlock dances with his past and future.-----Closing his eyes – inhaling the sea-salted air, he continues to dance without abandon. He can almost feel the presence of a hand at his back, and another in his own hand – guiding him with a finesse that he hadn’t experienced in so long. It takes him back to a more innocent time. A forgotten time. A younger him laughing so carefreely under the moonlight, his bare feet gliding over sea-smoothed sand, the wind blowing through his curls while the waters undulated under the gravitational interactions of the Earth and the moon. The joyous barking of a dog prancing at their feet and amidst the waves. The adept hands of someone taller than him holding him – guiding him – facilitating his genius. Making him look good – no, spectacular to the heavens above. He could almost feel the boy’s (no, a man’s) gaze upon him. Affection that he had never known emanates from the man’s eyes.Who is it? Sherlock wonders.-----
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Series: Holmescest Works [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745683
Comments: 16
Kudos: 173





	you are my sun and stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyGlinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/gifts).



> Ok, I know I've written a post-wedding fic for our brothers, but when I was writing the Christmas dance scene in Broken Glass (which is still a WIP) I was inspired to write up this one-shot. I don't know how frequently I am going to post after next week as I have boards in August so hopefully this will tide you lot over until then. 
> 
> Enjoy <3

Who was he kidding anyways? 

Sherlock takes one last glance behind him – the dance floor overflowing with dancers loosened by the copious amounts of alcohol supplied generously by the open bar. In the centre of it all, he can vaguely make out John and Mary – their arms around each other – swaying slowly to the music. Their abdomens touching with the knowing tenderness that there is some new life that is beginning to form deep within. A baby. Domestic bliss. He takes a deep sigh of resignation. He hates it when big brother is right. There had already been limited room for him when they had been the Watson two, but now three? Sherlock is asking for the barest of scraps at the table. 

It is the end of an era.

Everyone else is paired off. Molly with her Tom. Mrs. Hudson with the red-faced Mr. Chatterjee. Even Lestrade had found a bridesmaid, the copper twirling her round and round – before they split – laughing so hard that they are about to fall over in their respective states of inebriation. 

No one would notice him leave. 

_Alone is what I have. Alone protects me._

These words had left his mouth before, but now he is unsure of their veracity. He closes his eyes, feeling that hollowness within his chest. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling, but it has never been so strong – so intense. Leaving him with a sense of yearning for something he does not know. It had plagued him during the years where he had been away – whenever he had a breather in between missions to take stock of his life. 

Dreams of Baker Street, of cases, of John and Mrs. Hudson and even Mycroft had filled the idle downtime. Even in Serbia – when all things had appeared dire – he had been able to dissociate and revisit the past, which he knows now will staunchly remain in the past. 

_I am not lonely, Sherlock._

Big brother had told him shortly upon his return, and Sherlock had believed him despite his own snarky _how would you know?_ Maybe his phone call from earlier had caught his brother in a most compromising position. It wouldn’t be the first time a deduction of his had been wrong. Especially with how off-kilter he feels these days. 

Everyone has moved on, while he is stuck in the in-between. 

As he leaves the reception hall, he looks up into the expanse of clear night sky. 

_My sun and stars, the moon of my life._

Sherlock had witnessed a sari-wearing bride say reverently to her groom in a lavish wedding ceremony that he had crashed during his time away. In Hoboken, perhaps? There had been some ghastly individuals who had been hot on his tail at that time. 

Is it possible for someone to be all that to someone else? More importantly, is there someone out there _for him_ that he would ever see in that special way? 

As someone who had hung the moon up in the night sky just for him? 

Gods, how sentimental he feels tonight under the witness of the twinkling stars and the crescent moon! 

An age-old tune from happier times bubbles to his lips. He hums – it is a strain of a waltz, a little light piece that he had danced to as a youngster. It has an infectious lilt, and soon Sherlock’s body is moving of its own volition, filling in the steps – the gestures within its beat. He dances as a follow with an imaginary lead – gradually getting farther and farther from the reception hall in the English countryside. 

And isn’t that funny? That even when he’s alone, he instinctively follows. 

Perhaps, this is his transport trying to tell him something. 

Some people are meant to be alone, but he is not one of them, as much as he would not like to believe. Highly functioning sociopath, indeed! The greatest lie that he had sold himself in his younger years. 

_Redbeard._

Mycroft had reminded him earlier, and that deep gnawing ache from long ago still reverberates. His dog – his best friend – who had passed on when Sherlock had been an adolescent. But is it really better to avoid all emotional entanglements and never feel hurt again? 

There is risk in everything that is worthwhile. 

Closing his eyes – inhaling the sea-salted air, he continues to dance without abandon. He can almost feel the presence of a hand at his back, and another in his own hand – guiding him with a finesse that he hadn’t experienced in so long. It takes him back to a more innocent time. A forgotten time. A younger him laughing so carefreely under the moonlight, his bare feet gliding over sea-smoothed sand, the wind blowing through his curls while the waters undulated under the gravitational interactions of the Earth and the moon. The joyous barking of a dog prancing at their feet and amidst the waves. The adept hands of someone taller than him holding him – guiding him – facilitating his genius. Making him look good – no, spectacular to the heavens above. He could almost feel the boy’s (no, a man’s) gaze upon him. Affection that he had never known emanates from the man’s eyes. 

Who is it? Sherlock wonders. 

For if there is anything that he is certain about – it is that this is a snippet of a genuine memory that he had forgotten _(deleted)_ for reasons he does not remember. And then the moonlight falls upon the familiar face just as he looks up – and he almost gasps, for it is – 

Mycroft. Damn. Did he have too much to drink? He comes to a halt, seeing his big brother stand in front of him. Clad in his usual attire of three-piece suit, but his brolly is nowhere to be found. There are telltale creases in his suit jacket that suggest that he had spent a few hours in a car, and that he had driven himself over here. There is no evidence of sexual congress on his person – so Mycroft had been working out earlier as he had deduced. Sherlock steels himself for a tease about the lonely dancing that he had been doing, but his brother simply looks at him with an unreadable expression upon his face. 

“You came.” Sherlock breaks the silence between them when it has lingered for too long. 

“You did say it is not too late.” Mycroft says conversationally, attempting to straighten some of the creases in his suit. “Even at the eleventh hour.”

“Do you want to see –”

“No, Sherlock – I came for you.” 

Mycroft holds out an arm in invitation, and without hesitation, Sherlock takes it. There is an incredible electrifying tingle that shoots up his extremity at this initial contact, sending shivers throughout his body. Of anticipation. Of pleasure. This scene seems and feels so familiar. As if it was something they’ve done time and time again, yet for the life of him, Sherlock cannot pinpoint when was the last time he had ever danced with his brother. 

An echo back in time. 

There is no music, aside from the chorus of crickets and grasshoppers, the occasional rustle of leaves and the percussive crash of the waves of the nearby sea. Sherlock hadn’t even realized that the reception had been held so close to the shores of the English Channel. He is swept across the immaculately kept grasses, supported by the comforting warmth of his brother’s hand against his lower back and the other ensnared within his own digits. Their waltzing steps are fluid, their movements brisk, their gestures expansive. 

No other lead that Sherlock had ever danced with had ever felt so natural. 

So right. 

Gods. 

Why had he forgotten?

They turn, they twirl – Sherlock gets spun – and he is struck by how little he has to think. Intrinsically, he knows exactly what and when Mycroft wants him to do with every minute variation of his touch, every infinitesimal change in the degree of inclination of his head and even in his eyes – so uncharacteristically expressive under the starlight. 

Hell, they even _breathe_ together. 

It’s evident that at some point in their lives, they had danced together a lot. So much so that their bodies know each other so intimately despite the decades that had elapsed since they have danced last.

Memories begin to surface from the depths of his subconscious. 

_You can’t hide yourself when you dance._

One of their kooky relatives had observed after Mycroft and he had taken to the floor in an old drawing room when he had been fourteen. Uncle Morty – perhaps? – the man second only in eccentricity to their late Uncle Rudy. The only thing that had prevented Sherlock’s high-class relatives from calling him a wildling – a barbarian – had been his skill at dancing. It had been an art that Sherlock had always genuinely liked and admired. Younger him had begged Mycroft desperately to teach him. And now memories of Mycroft teaching him how to dance arise to the forefront – their summer days spent rehearsing outdoors and in. 

Stories are created and passed on through dance. And perhaps, this is the story of his own life that is being revealed with their every move and their every breath. 

The waltz changes into a foxtrot with playful steps, reminiscent of frolics in the woods that had been a major aspect in Sherlock’s youth. Redbeard would stroll with them – the Irish setter would usually be a few steps ahead, investigating everything and anything that came into his path. 

He sees the twilight years of Redbeard’s life. Before Mycroft had gone to work for Queen and Country, before Sherlock himself had gone to public school for sixth form in preparation for University. Before everything had changed. 

The summers of those years had been when everything had come to life with a fantastical vibrancy. These were the summers where Mycroft would come home for the holidays from Oxford. Sherlock recalls running to the front door and suddenly being picked up by strong arms and spun around in circles. His brother’s smile. The affectionate ruffling of his curls. An adventure every day. Visits to the beach, exploring the woods, experiments of all sorts, pranks on visiting relatives and of course – dancing! 

Mycroft and he had been so close...

How did it all change so fast? 

Suddenly their eyes meet. Sherlock is startled by what he sees in those blue irises.

Regret. 

Mycroft’s hand slides comfortingly down Sherlock’s back – over his scars, mapping out the contours of Sherlock’s spine. The memories continue to spill forth: of Redbeard’s last days and eventual death. Sherlock had held his paw as his dear friend had slipped away into the valley of the shadows in the veterinarian’s office. The last summer that Sherlock and Mycroft had spent together. Together had been a generous descriptor. Mycroft had grown increasingly distant while Sherlock had still been mourning. He had been too distracted by Redbeard’s death to see or notice the change in his brother until it had been too late. 

Their dance slows, the steps taking on a more Latin character – influenced by Rumba. 

His brother holds him closer, and Sherlock realizes exactly how much Mycroft’s aloofness had really hurt. Scarred him deeply in ways he didn’t comprehend or even notice back then. Or even now. Sherlock had attributed the pain to the passing of his beloved pet, but he knows now that it isn’t true. The true origin of the pain had been the disappearance of the only person that had ever understood him. 

Or more accurately, the only person Sherlock had ever loved at a time where he had needed him the most. 

Then the memory of the last night is upon him. The night before Mycroft had left. They had been in the drawing room. Sherlock had asked him to dance. He had been fifteen. Mycroft had been twenty-two. His brother’s eyes had been incomprehensible then. Cold. Neutral. There had been a single shake of his head. A blunt rejection. Sherlock doesn’t remember what he had done afterwards, but before he had left, he had caught the paroxysm of pain in Mycroft’s facial features. It was the beginning of the end. When Mycroft had left the next day, Sherlock hadn’t realized it then, but any hope he had of being truly happy had disappeared along with his brother. 

The worst thing is that he didn’t even know what he had done wrong. The memories explain so much though – Sherlock’s endless need for distractions – be they either chemical or intellectual in nature to keep those pesky old memories at bay, his continued resentment of his brother and his inability to trust other people – to let them in. 

Before Sherlock could pull away – feeling the need to withdraw, run away and curl up in a fetal position from the return of painful memories that he had thought he had long forgotten, or rather deleted – Mycroft draws him even closer. He is immersed within the bewitching scents of Mycroft’s cologne, aftershave and even sweat. Their bodies are practically brushing against the other.

Sherlock can’t help noticing how well they fit together. 

They are no longer formally dancing per se, but it is an embrace of sorts with their bodies swaying to an intrinsic beat that only they know. If Sherlock looks up, he can see the shores of the English Channel facing continental Europe within the gaps of the tree trunks. Rather similar to the shores they had played along during those glorious summers of years long past. He turns his head just a little more and he almost gasps when his cheek makes contact with Mycroft’s recently shaven one. 

His brother doesn’t shirk away – and Sherlock catches the darkening of his irises filled with some type of sentiment that he dare not name. It fills him with a warmth he shouldn’t have felt on this breezy summer’s evening. A hand slides over the nape of his neck and into his curls – holding his head in a surprisingly tender way.

There is just one word that Sherlock wants to say. 

“Why?” 

He croaks as he holds himself rigid, daring not to lean into his brother’s intimate touch out of self-preservation. 

The familiar pain that Sherlock had seen on Mycroft’s face all those years ago makes a reappearance. The blues of his irises manage to look both sad and wistful all at once. 

Mycroft’s lips part, but not a word leaves his throat. 

The pieces of this decades old puzzle slowly fall into place. 

The answer had been so simple, yet – because it’s them – so complicated. 

“You aren’t lonely.” Sherlock says quietly, his words barely audible over the breezes blowing outward to sea. 

“No.” Mycroft rasps. 

“But you were – when I was gone.” He asks for clarification.

His brother immediately replies. “Yes.” 

Sherlock takes a breath, tasting the salt in the air – hoping to gather the courage of the seas. “All those years ago back in our parents’ drawing room, brother mine – you wanted to say – yes.”

A slow nod. Mycroft scrunches his eyes shut for a moment, reliving the memory as Sherlock had done earlier, but he says frankly. “I did. But I couldn’t.” His hands move to cup Sherlock’s jaw, his fingers resting on his cheeks – keeping Sherlock’s gaze fixated on him. “If I had danced with you on that last night, you would have known something had fundamentally changed in my regard for you, Lock.” He sighs painfully. “In the process of savagely ripping out my own heart, I hurt you – unforgivably.” He laughs suddenly – harshly. “I don’t expect you to forgive me, little brother. I haven’t even forgiven myself –”

“It’s why you just take it at times when I behave abominably toward you.” Sherlock deduces. 

“Yes. I deserved it. Everything that you ever dished out at me. It’s fitting – perhaps – that the person I cared most about in the world ended up despising me completely. Karma, I thought. But yet – just having you speak to me no matter how scathing your tongue was at times – enough.” 

“You could have told me.” Sherlock murmurs reproachfully, while a thumb strokes tenderly at one of his cheekbones. “It would have been –”

“Would it really, Lock?” Mycroft retorts. “You were fifteen at the time. You weren’t even of age –”

“I could have waited –”

“Does it even cross your mind at all that this is illegal at any age? Immoral? And would have led to our utter ruination if it had ever come out into the light of day?” Mycroft whispers rather harshly, his breath striking Sherlock’s face with every syllable. “And how would your fifteen-year-old self have taken it?”

“Mycroft. I adored you when I was a teen. I would have done anything for you. With you. And, illegal yes – but I don’t believe you for a second that you think this is immoral.” 

“No. I don’t.” Mycroft agrees. “But it’s taken me a long time to reach this point of acceptance, Lock. And this is every big brother’s worst fear – you know – that their younger sibling gets serious amorous attentions from a thoroughly unsuitable older man –” 

Sherlock actually laughs. “Damn, Mycroft, imbecilic brother – I don’t need protection from you.”

His brother drops his hands to his sides, leaving Sherlock bereft. Under the stars, he looks incredibly vulnerable, despite his usual armour of three-piece suit. Mycroft asks, his words tentative, unsure. “Do you still adore me, Lock? Or have I managed to fuck this up beyond repair?”

“Why now?” Sherlock inquires, letting Mycroft’s use of an expletive go unteased.

“Why not ever?” Mycroft shrugs, before attempting a more serious answer. “Because, little brother – I was reminded of how things were in our youth before you had left to finish off the rest of Moriarty’s network. That it was possible to look past our years of resentment and bickering to accomplish something bigger. God. You have no idea how much I missed you when you were gone. I wanted to tell you when you came back, but it quickly became Dr. Watson this, and Dr. Watson that for you. So I waited until now.”

Sherlock reaches toward Mycroft, letting his hands rest on his brother’s forearms, just below the elbows. The ball is in his court now. He lets his forehead brush against Mycroft’s before saying – feeling just the tiniest thrill of romance run throughout his blood. 

“Take me to the seashore – Mycroft, and maybe you might find out.” 

***

If he didn’t know any better, Mycroft would have thought he had strolled through a portal and traveled back in time. They walk along the shoreline, hand-in-hand, with the fine white sand running between their bare toes. That last summer of long ago had been such a confusing time, one where he had been torn between pushing Lock away, or pulling him into his arms. Of kissing him senseless, or giving him the cold shoulder. Of desperately wanting to say yes to Lock’s last request, but instead, rejecting it outright. While Lock had opted to forget everything that had transpired between them, he revisits his decisions every night and grieves for everything that could have been and had been.

He had watched Lock grieve for Redbeard, but he hadn’t realized it then that it had been his indecisiveness and feigned indifference that had really hurt his dearest. On that final night, he might as well have driven a dagger into Sherlock’s heart – considering how different – how changed his sweet little brother had been afterwards. 

Redbeard had just been a convenient excuse for both Lock and himself. It was easier to blame how broken Lock had become on the passing of their beloved dog. When they had danced, Mycroft had seen Sherlock recollect those lost memories – and to realize that his pain went far beyond the loss of a beloved childhood pet. 

There is so much he wants to say and do. From begging for forgiveness on his knees, or to take Sherlock in his arms and kiss him into oblivion. For Sherlock, he would beg. And would do so with nary a complaint. He wants to start paying his dues. The ones that would take entire lifetimes to settle them all. 

Neither Lock or he dare speak though, as if afraid to break the spell – the revisitation of a happier past. He could see Lock throw a frisbee in the air, and Redbeard dashing off into the sea waves to fetch the soaring disc. He could hear Lock’s laughter, ringing so sweetly in his ears. Of the two of them sharing an ice cream cone with no qualms about the other’s saliva. Of Lock sitting innocently in his lap, while they trade amusing little stories and observations of the months where they hadn’t been together. Of them uncharitably deducing _(slandering)_ the beachgoers that dare invade their private haven! There had been the time where Lock had sprained and cut up his ankle while climbing around the cliff rocks – and Mycroft had piggybacked him all the way back home. 

And then Lock turns to face him, his eyes sparkling with a delight that Mycroft hadn’t seen in years. He had removed his tie, waistcoat and suit jacket – the latter two against Mycroft’s advice, considering how windy it is by the sea. Sherlock holds out his hand, like he had done when he was fifteen and Mycroft realizes that Sherlock is asking for that last dance – the dance they never had. 

Immediately, he takes Sherlock within his arms and they are slow-dancing to some imaginary waltz; their bare feet leaving prints behind in the otherwise pristine sand to be swept away by the sea before the sunrise. 

Already, the dance has changed – as Uncle Mortimer (Lord Hastings) had once observed so astutely – that one cannot hide their truest self when they dance. When one does not hold back. And Mycroft had never been one to do things in half-measures. It had been Uncle Morty’s words that had influenced his decision to avoid dancing with his brother at all in the twenty-second year of his life. To deprive himself of what he had loved best. That man would know. The stories of his flirtations and his _affaires de passione_ are legend. From the opera singers of _La Scala_ in Milan, to the bellboys of the extravagant hotel next door. But despite all this smoke, he cannot help but to observe that Uncle Morty always gravitated towards their late Uncle Rudy at the end of the day whenever he came back to England. 

Mycroft’s touches and glances already mean so much more, as he uses them to try and convey all the tender feeling and affection that he had buried deep down inside throughout the years. 

He loves dancing with Lock. Had always loved it. How he had missed this! It makes him want to sob with relief. The feeling of his dearest in his arms. How Sherlock always knows what to do and when to do it. His astonishing creativity and elegance. It had always been an incentive to up his game whenever he danced with Lock. To let his brother bedazzle wherever and whomever he danced for. He had danced with a plethora of people throughout the years at innumerable functions, and no one could ever hold a candle to Lock. 

It’s as if they are two parts of a single whole – and it is observations like this that makes Mycroft want to believe that people were created in pairs.

As stupidly sentimental that thought is!

“I taught John how to dance for the wedding.” Sherlock’s voice is barely audible in the wind. “Taught him how to lead, thinking that I could follow. Turns out he’s god-awful at it.” 

“You deserve the best, dear.” Mycroft simply says, not wanting to talk about Dr. Watson on this special night. Not wanting to think of another man’s grubby hands on his brother, no matter how married he is. And how pregnant his wife is. 

He doesn’t fucking deserve it. 

But then again, neither does he. 

Mycroft then says seriously after spinning them both around – stirring up a small cloud of sand in their wake. “I don’t want this to be the last dance I ever have with you, dearest. I want this to be the first of many.” He says as he slides his hand possessively against Lock’s back, bringing him closer. 

“My.” Sherlock looks up at him, his beautiful eyes outshining the stars. He says playfully, his lips curved in a mischievous smile – making him look so impossibly young. Like he had looked at another seashore almost two decades ago. “Show me.” _How much you love me. How much you want me. Show me everything._

And Mycroft endeavours to do so. 

***

They are so close that their noses and cheeks are brushing against the other. There is the sensual glide of Mycroft’s hands against his hips and shoulders, causing sparks to run up his nerves. He had forgotten how amazing Mycroft feels against him. Sherlock’s eyes are glued to Mycroft’s as they complete a walk, mesmerized by the depths of emotion within them. The moves are new – Sherlock realizes – the dazzling yet sensual flourishes of a tango. Argentine. 

The entanglement of their legs, their arms – how their bodies brush both willingly and deliberately against the other. And how natural it all seems! His body is drawn toward Mycroft’s as Mycroft’s is drawn towards his. There is a natural pull and push – of them separating, of them coming together during another sequence – like the constant ebb and flow of the waves that accompany them. 

Then there is his brother slowly twirling him around, that gasp when Sherlock’s bum inadvertently comes into prolonged contact with Mycroft’s pelvis and Sherlock’s own shock when his brother picks him up as if he weighed no more than he had done as an adolescent and whirls him around and around. When Sherlock is in the process of being brought back down to Earth, he makes sure that his bum brushes firmly against Mycroft’s belly, hip and thigh. It feels surreal, dancing under the starlit skies – underneath the same skies and stars that he had danced under in the years long ago as a child. 

When he had been so happy. 

It seems like a lifetime ago.

The need – the want – grows with every look, every touch and every move. As cold as it must be getting, Sherlock feels warm. Hot. Incandescently so. Eventually their dance devolves – with Mycroft simply holding him in an embrace – their faces lightly brushing against the other with utmost gentleness. 

Those impassioned blue eyes catch his – and he realizes that Mycroft is going to kiss him. For real – not one of those accidental brushes of the lips that had occurred over the course of their tango. His brother’s hand slides into his curls once again and when their lips meet for the first time – it’s not the fireworks that Sherlock had thought were going to explode from the heated buildup of their dance – but something so tenderly sweet that it makes him want to cry instead. Another hand touches his cheek, and Sherlock realizes that Mycroft is wiping away the few drops of moisture that had fallen onto his skin. 

“Sh, Lock. I got you.” Mycroft says, his syllables soft – his eyes slightly worried.

“It’s okay. I am okay.” The words leave his mouth in a flurry to placate his brother. “I just thought… that I could never have this. People are always leaving and never staying. Or if they stay, something unavoidable makes me leave.” He whispers – recalling his thoughts from earlier on in the evening.

“Oh Lock.” Mycroft encircles him with his arms. “I will stay. For good this time. I promise.” 

“Never again?”

“Never again. I swear.” Mycroft nuzzles his face affectionately, letting his nose slot against Sherlock’s. “And if I do, I will take you with me.” 

“I’d like that.” Sherlock smiles. He then asks curiously. “What’s the real reason why you didn’t show up earlier?”

Mycroft’s face instantly falls which makes Sherlock immediately regret his seemingly innocent question, but his brother admits frankly. “Because it’s something that I could never have, Lock. Marriage. Being tied to someone in that special way. We can never be husband and wife, or husband and husband. I’ve never liked going to weddings since I knew who I cared so deeply for, dearest one – and only go when there is duty to do so.” And then he says somberly. “I only came here because you asked me too.” 

Sherlock clings onto him, letting their lips brush once more. Mycroft had come for him. Because he had asked him to. The hollowness in his chest is gone now, replaced by warmth that is threatening to overflow. He then replies cheekily. “But we can have a honeymoon. Or rather, sex holiday. Now – in fact.”

“You really want to have sex with me? Your old brother?” Mycroft asks. 

It’s not a self-deprecating question, evidenced by the glimmer in his eyes. 

“If we tango so well in the y-axis, I can only imagine that it would be fantastic in the x-axis.” Sherlock smirks. “Besides, I want you to show me how sex ought to alarm me. And please tell me you have a hotel room somewhere – it’s getting cold.”

“Mm... I can see that I have my work cut out for me already.”

“What else is new?” Sherlock grins unrepentantly, and Mycroft swats at him.

***

This is beyond his wildest imaginings. Mycroft holds his Lock in his arms, letting his forehead touch Sherlock’s. He cradles his beloved, still in disbelief that Lock would let him do so. He knows Sherlock feels the same way – how his brother refused to lean into his touches earlier, afraid that doing so would lead to more hurt. Seeing that had been agony, but it’s only right that Mycroft has to earn everything that he once had taken for granted. To thaw out what ice had remained around his brother’s heart. He presses a hand against Sherlock’s chest, feeling the aforementioned organ beat in a comforting and healthy cadence against his palm. 

God. Those drug days! The violent end of cases! The days where Lock had been gone from England. The days where Mycroft had spent frantically searching for him when he had vanished in Belgrade. He had lived in fear for a long while, thinking that each glimpse he catches of Lock would be his last. That Lock would pass on and never know what Mycroft had truly felt deep down for him. The jealousy that he had felt when Dr. Watson and Sherlock had gotten along so well. And so quickly. That warehouse stunt… had not been his finest moment. If the physician had been a little bit smarter, maybe he would have figured out the terrible _(wonderful)_ truth. 

He slides that same hand into his brother’s soft silky curls, savouring its texture. Gently guiding Sherlock’s head, he moves in for a kiss. The lightest touch of the lips. Sherlock may be inexperienced, but in this new kind of dance – perhaps not so much in the other facets of his life – he understands the value of patience. Their lips glide against the other, memorizing and categorizing all the delightful sensations – mapping the contours – conquering new territory. 

Deepening the kiss, he presses his brother firmly against the wall of the room. Sherlock moans wantonly when Mycroft sucks at his upper lip, before using the tip of his tongue to soothe it, before repeating it with his bottom lip. And it’s Mycroft’s turn to gasp when his brother’s tongue teasingly flicks against his own lips, and maurads his mouth – slowly entangling his tongue with his. Sherlock moans again into Mycroft’s mouth when their pelvises collide – and Mycroft can feel the distinctive stirring of arousal. One of Sherlock’s hands is caressing his own thinning hair, trying to gain some leverage over their kiss. All too soon, they part – gasping for air to counter the hypoxia, and even in the darkness of their hotel suite for the night – Mycroft can make out the dilation of Sherlock’s pupils – mirroring the same need, the same want that is burning in his own. 

“Mycroft…” 

Sherlock moans and proceeds to whimper when Mycroft kisses his way down, from one cheek to his delectable neck, making his kisses wetter and all the more filthy as he descends. He had always loved Sherlock’s habit of leaving the top buttons of his shirts undone – how they bare all that beautiful anatomy that Mycroft had been guilty of daydreaming of whenever he gets bored during interminable meetings. Sherlock turns the tables when his wicked mouth finds his way to Mycroft’s right ear and licks and sucks – and it feels so damned good that Mycroft just has to pinch himself for a moment. To make sure that this is real. Sherlock chuckles, but not for long when Mycroft attempts another onslaught of salacious snogging. 

“God… you are so beautiful.” Mycroft whispers in Sherlock’s ear minutes later, as he guides and pushes him down onto their bed. There is the barest hint of a waver in his voice. “Pulchritudinous. So divine. So mine.” 

Sherlock shivers at his words, looking up at him as if he’s insane. He might be. But it doesn’t matter. He knows Lock doesn’t think he is beautiful. That he doesn’t deserve Mycroft’s love, even though it is he that had muddied the waters in what was thankfully a recoverable manner. He knows what Lock thinks of his souvenirs – his scars from Serbia. That he takes great pains to hide his naked form ever since he had returned. 

“You are, though.” Mycroft reaffirms, as he starts undoing the buttons of Lock’s shirt. “And don’t listen to any other fool who says otherwise.” He then requests. “I want to see you.” 

“Mycroft…” Sherlock protests when Mycroft moves to switch on the lamplight. 

“Darling boy… let me love you.” He whispers tenderly when he returns, the space bathed by a friendly warm glow. “Let me show you. Please.”

***

That earnestness in Mycroft’s eyes. They are so mesmerizing that Sherlock feels like he’s drowning in them. He has never felt so vulnerable before; the cool air-conditioned air is causing gooseflesh to form on the stripe of pale skin exposed by his undone buttons. He wants to believe Mycroft’s words, he really really does. The pleading in Mycroft’s voice. The affection in his touches. The way he looks at him – like Sherlock is the fount for all reason that exists in this universe. 

Then he realizes that Mycroft had looked at him like this before. 

When they were young.

By all the gods. His brother had loved him for a very long time. That magical night on the seashore so long ago. 

He had just been too young to know. 

To realize. 

To decipher. 

Mycroft is asking him to trust him again. 

Can he do that? 

There is risk in everything that is worthwhile. He had thought to himself earlier. He gives a barely perceptible nod without realizing it – his body making the decision readily that his brain cannot. And Mycroft is upon him, his hands and lips so gentle that they can only give pleasure as he guides Sherlock through the steps of this new dance. Sherlock instinctively arches into every caress, leans into every touch – there is an odd purring noise that he realizes partway through that is coming from him. He’s following his brother again, and it’s absolutely wonderful. 

Affectionate and worshipful words slip out of Mycroft’s mouth now and then. 

Like with dance, his body seems to know what Mycroft wants as well, and he finds himself exploring his brother’s shirtless form in no time at all, finding delight in all the dark fur that covers his soft skin and even the soft (but trim!) belly that Mycroft has found fault with ever since he was an adolescent. It would make a nice pillow – Sherlock files the thought away for the future. 

A future! 

How delightful! 

His brother coaxes him to turn around, even though he is reluctant to do so. But Sherlock takes a deep breath and flips around, suddenly realizing that he wants Mycroft to accept all of him. There’s no point in doing this in half-measures. He is rewarded with a wet kiss to the nape although he tries to ignore the sharp intake of breath from Mycroft upon seeing these scars for the first time since Serbia. His brother’s fingers lightly trace his scars with a reverence that startles him. Mycroft’s words are telling him that he was brave, that these marks were proof of his love and loyalty, not failure – and that he wishes fervently that he could have traded places with Lock on that day in Serbia. 

Something wet slides down his cheeks, and Sherlock realizes that he is in tears again. He hasn’t cried so much in years. Not since the night that Mycroft had refused him. Not since the day that Redbeard was buried. His brother loves him. Mycroft is kissing his way down his back, with his lips and the fluttering of his long eyelashes, continuing the worship of his back. 

Sherlock has never felt so warm, cocooned in his brother’s love and care. 

Afterwards, his brother’s arms hold him, and rock him as he cries. Pressing kisses to dry his wet cheeks. It dampens the arousal, but it is a welcome and necessary interlude. It’s not a race to the finish, anyhow. Sherlock knows that much. But a journey, an airing of emotions and pain that haven’t seen the light of the day. 

They have time. 

Soon, Sherlock is divested of his pants and trousers and Mycroft is asking him how he wants to proceed. Damn, he should have wikied sex positions or something on the way here, because he has absolutely no fucking clue. He’s the virgin after all. His brother’s hand lightly masturbates Sherlock’s partially erect cock, letting his fingertips massage the slit – coating his glans with his precum. He moans softly when another hand fondles his scrotal sac, before slipping back to his arse. During this entire time, Mycroft keeps watching him, and Sherlock is sure if there’s any indication of discomfort, his brother would stop immediately. Instead, Sherlock’s hips buck and he gasps wantonly when a finger lightly swipes over his hole. 

Oh. He would like that. 

“You like that?” Mycroft leans over to kiss him. 

“Yeah.” Sherlock manages, feeling that tension grow tauter deep down. “Please.” And he almost giggles when Mycroft pulls out lubricant from beneath the pillows. He murmurs. “Someone was very optimistic.” 

“Mm… or I could be having a sad wank here on my own, if you had refused. You know how I like to be prepared, Lock.” Mycroft kisses his neck. “You sure you want this? We could do other things, you know – little brother.” 

“I think we waited long enough, don’t you? I want you to claim me. I want to feel it tomorrow morning.”

“Perhaps.” Mycroft smiles against his lips. “I would have waited forever. You know that. If not in this lifetime, the next.”

“God, My – you sap.” 

There is the _snick_ of the lubricant cap, and suddenly something slippery is at his entrance, and he gasps when Mycroft’s fingertip slowly circles his rim before pushing carefully through the tight ring of muscle. It doesn’t hurt, but Sherlock instinctively clenches his teeth at the unfamiliar sensation. 

“Okay?” Mycroft asks.

“Yeah. Proceed.” 

Sherlock wiggles his bum in what he hoped was an enticing manner, and he sighs when Mycroft’s other hand cups the curve of one of his buttocks. He tries to relax as the finger circles and worms its way deeper, eventually all the way up to the knuckle. Another digit teases his rim and he nods before Mycroft could ask. It stings a bit when the second fingertip breaches him to join the first. Gently the fingers scissor him – stretching him. 

His brother’s eyes remain intently focused upon him. 

Sherlock finds himself reexamining Mycroft. Clearly middle-aged, but incredibly handsome. Broad shoulders, hairy – well almost everything and more muscular than Sherlock would have thought. But then he remembers Mycroft lifting him up like he had weighed almost nothing at the seashore. Mm… and his cock. So thick, so long and so hard. Reddened with the flow of blood. His own prick twitches with increased interest. The third finger interrupts his reverie, and it moves quicker, scissoring him with a vigour. His cock is leaking copious amounts of precum, and he just wants Mycroft to fuck him already, damnit! 

“Come up here.” Mycroft says, patting his thigh as he lets his fingers slip out. 

Sherlock obeys immediately. His arms instantly wrap around Mycroft’s shoulders, and his brother holds his own large cock up. When Sherlock lowers himself onto Mycroft’s lap with his legs spread, Mycroft lines up his prick with Sherlock’s well lubricated and stretched hole. The spongy mushroom head bounces tantalizingly against his entrance, and Sherlock knows that there is no turning back here. Not that he wants to. His brother thrusts in, popping the glans inside and Sherlock cannot stop the keen from leaving his throat. 

It’s intense – the stretch. Quite a bit more than three fingers. His brother is so big. Mycroft’s free hand tenderly cups his face as he slides in further. Sherlock’s internal muscles clench and protest at the intrusion. He’s not going to lie. It hurts and it is uncomfortable, but men have been fucking men for millennia and wanting more afterwards, so he is sure that the pleasure will come. Soon. Mycroft stops every time Sherlock winces, and he doesn’t continue until Sherlock nods for more. When he finally reaches the base, where his bum is flush with his brother’s flesh, he groans, extending his neck back, feeling the fullness that is Mycroft up his most intimate space. His brother’s hand sneaks back into his curls, gently combing through them as a welcome contrasting and soothing sensation. 

Mycroft kisses him, oh so tenderly, before whispering. “You are doing so well, love – tell me when.” 

“When.” The word leaves immediately from his lips.

Sherlock has enough functioning grey cells left for cheek, and his brother smiles delightedly at him. Still, Mycroft waits just a bit longer, knowing Sherlock’s propensity for throwing himself into situations when he’s not quite ready. God. This is incredibly hot, despite the discomfort. His brother slides himself out gradually, causing Sherlock to whine at the jarring absence, leaving just the tip. And then his brother thrusts back in, and he cannot help but moan. Soon, his brother is rocking in and out of him at a steady tempo, taking the time to kiss. It’s starting to feel good now. Really good. Sherlock uses his hips to spur Mycroft onward asking for more, and his brother obliges – slamming into him, forcing him to cry out. His cry is immediately cut off by another kiss, and this time – his brother is tonguefucking him as much as fucking him literally – and he’s really running out of adjectives to describe how amazing this is.

Soon, Mycroft finds that perfect angle – hitting Sherlock just right – and wrenches something loud from his mouth. His brother keeps it up, stroking him deep and hard with everything he’s got and Sherlock will never make a comment about Mycroft’s distaste for legwork (or rather hipwork) ever again. He’s feeling heady and hot, and it really does feel like Mycroft is trying to fuck his brains out. He can feel his arms clinging onto Mycroft for dear life, his nails digging into his skin so deep that he is likely drawing blood. He can almost see stars. God. Fuck. Every afferent nerve ending of his is being fired, and he can feel that mixture of chemicals – dopamine mainly – flood from his nucleus accumbens to everywhere possible in his body – perfusing him with a sublime sort of heat. Unparallel to any sort of pleasure he had partaken previously in his life. He has never been so erect – his hard aching cock trapped between their bodies. He feels like he could cum from this intense anal stimulation alone. There is even something feral creeping up into Mycroft’s irises, and Sherlock loves it. Loves that they’ve been gone from loving and tender to shagging like animals in a heat.

“So fucking tight.” His brother almost growls.

“You are so fucking big.” Sherlock mumbles, not even sure of what he is saying anymore – before shouting unintelligibly again when the cock thrusts into him once more. 

They are kissing, slowing down the tempo of Mycroft’s thrusts. Sherlock is moaning and groaning, and whimpering; his body is arching into Mycroft’s – desperately seeking more skin-to-skin contact. If this is how amazing sex is, Sherlock thinks that he would have to apologize to everyone he’s ever disparaged because they couldn’t keep it in their pants. Oh god, when this is over, he’s probably going to be jumping Mycroft at every possible moment. Because he wants not just sex but _Mycroft_ all just so very _very_ much. 

“My… please.” Sherlock presses his needy cock against Mycroft’s belly, and his most wonderful brother takes his hard prick in hand and starts frigging him at the same rate he fucks into him. 

Big brother is merciless and leaves no leverage for Sherlock to control any aspect of their sex. Sherlock gasps and pants. He moans, gripping tighter onto his brother for dear life as Mycroft relentlessly pounds into him – chasing his own needs. There is a stream of nonsense flowing from his mouth that sounds awfully like begging. His brother keeps hammering into him and before he knows it, he’s screaming as he cums feeling like he’s about to pass out due to the sheer intensity of his orgasm. It causes his arse to clench at his brother’s prick – and his brother keeps thrusting into him, once, twice and thrice before he finally ejaculates – spasming and spilling his hot seed deep into Sherlock’s arse. Claiming him on some primitive level that he hadn’t known he had needed.

Sherlock has almost no energy left, but he uses what little he does have to cling tightly to his brother, not wanting to let go – resting his head on Mycroft’s shoulder. His brother’s arms are around him too, and his softening cock is still lodged comfortingly up his arse. Mycroft is panting, not too dissimilar to how he had sounded over that phone call from earlier in the day (or rather, yesterday now) – but Sherlock is sure he is far more out of breath. The smell of sex permeates the air, and he feels Mycroft mustering the energy to nuzzle gently at his face with his own. 

Happy. A word floats into his shagged-out brain. 

His brother’s lips curve into a smile, as he teases. “You are a screamer.”

“No I am not.” Sherlock is aware that most of the noises had come from him. And he wouldn’t be surprised if anyone knocked on their door and yelled for them to keep it bloody down. But he will deny it until his last breath. 

“Yes you are.” Mycroft looks at him so adoringly that Sherlock would have confessed to anything on the spot.

God. He’s pathetic. 

His brother kisses him softly, letting his hand trail down Sherlock’s face. “I love you. So very, very much.” 

Sherlock nuzzles Mycroft’s neck, murmuring. “I love you too. I think… I always did. From when I knew who you were. I just… didn’t know.”

His brother lets out a shuddering breath at Sherlock’s words. There is a spark of gratefulness and wonder in his eyes. Instead he asks. “What’s your opinion on sex now, little brother?” 

“I was thinking that I was an idiot for thinking that everyone else were idiots who couldn’t keep it in their pants.” 

“That good, hm?” Mycroft presses another fond kiss to his cheek. 

“You might regret it. I am going to demand it all the time.” Sherlock smirks.

“I was hoping that you might say that.” Mycroft grins. “I look forward to satiating your every carnal need.” 

“Mm… sounds good.” Sherlock yawns, and Mycroft suggests while finally letting his soft prick slide out of Sherlock’s arse. “We should shower then.”

“Are we going back tomorrow?” Sherlock asks with some dread. 

If that is so, he doesn’t want the night to end anytime soon.

“Only if you want to. We can have our ‘sex holiday’, or ‘honeymoon’ – or whatever you want to call it. I just request that we go away from here so that we won’t run into anyone we know.” 

“That’s reasonable. I concur. Work?” 

“Have the next week or so off. Anthea saw to that. Even if you weren’t with me, I figured I might need the time to put myself back together. That way I would have to commit myself to telling you everything after this wedding. Come on, Lock – let’s go shower. This cannot possibly be comfortable.” Mycroft looks pointedly down at Sherlock’s emissions, which are beginning the process of fusing them together. 

Reluctantly, Sherlock follows Mycroft into the shower.

***

They would get a dog eventually. It would be so easy now. Mycroft thinks as he helps Sherlock slather on sunscreen – still marveling at his brother’s smooth alabaster skin, slightly reddened from the sun. Sherlock doesn’t have a flatmate anymore. No one to keep close tabs on his comings and goings at Baker Street, especially with Dr. Watson conveniently tied up in marital bliss and with a pregnant wife in a flat located in the cheaper outskirts of London. 

They had spent the past week hopping from beach to beach, exploring untrodden shores and finding treasure like they did as children. From intriguing sea caves that might have served as the locale for a young Sherlock’s favourite pirate stories and wild games of make-believe, dense Marram grasses that hide seals, kittiwakes and all sorts of intriguing wildlife and even the old seadog who sells the most creamy and heavenly of homemade ice creams while spinning old yarns that contain just enough truth to make them believe in fantastical happenings – of smuggling, of plunder, of blood and guts, of tragic shipwrecks and thwarted love – that had happened in the English Channel not too long ago. 

Now, it feels like they have reached the end of the world (or rather England) in Nanjizal with its sandstone caves that look as if they served as dragons’ dens and its opulent waters hiding the beaches of softest white sand at high tide. 

There’s no one here besides them. It had taken so much coaxing for Sherlock to go shirtless at the sparsely populated beaches that they have visited over the past days. His brother doesn’t like it when people stare (usually with horror) at his scars. Mycroft turns his head slightly to kiss the side of his brother’s head, and Sherlock gives a little hum of contentment. 

That comforting warmth and closeness that had existed between them almost two decades ago has returned, with the delicious dash of just a bit more. The more one would expect when they’ve been shagging like rabbits and can’t stop touching each other even if their lives had depended on it. The lack of marriage ceremony aside, it has been a honeymoon in every sense of the word, and Mycroft finds himself wishing that they could spend the rest of their lives like this. It is just exactly how Mycroft had felt during those old summers, dreading every time the summer days come to a close – marking his inevitable return to Eton or to Oxford. 

But perhaps, what made days like this so vibrant and otherworldly is the impermanence of it all. Snatches of happiness meant to be savoured and treasured. Glimpses of nirvana seen through the threads of the fabric that make up the humdrum of everyday life. At least now, Mycroft knows that Sherlock loves him as much as he loves Sherlock, and that it would be up to them to tend to and nurture their own paradise. 

His brother stretches, showing off the beauty of his musculature. The pertness of his perfect bottom. His eyes glinting so affectionately up at Mycroft from between his legs. As soon as Sherlock moves to stand back straight, Mycroft can no longer resist and charges his brother – picking him up, causing him to squeal in a most undignified manner and running across the sand into the emerald waters of a plunge pool overlooked by an arch made up of the Song of the Sea rock before tossing him unceremoniously into the salty waters when they are deep enough in. 

“You are so childish.” Sherlock comes up sputtering and gasping for breath.

Mycroft is immediately upon him with a smirk as he says silkily. “I will show you childish, brother mine.” 

He tickles his brother – under the armpits, and when Lock is helplessly laughing and gasping for air and squeezing his arms tight to his sides – cutting off access, Mycroft goes for his exposed flanks. 

“Oh god. Stop. Please! Mercy!” Sherlock gives up fending off Mycroft’s persistent digits, which have had many years of practice doing this sort of thing to a younger, more defenseless Lock. 

Mycroft immediately stops, his arms instead bring his brother closer to him, and Sherlock tucks his head beneath Mycroft’s chin. His hands run across Sherlock’s scarred back, and he ducks down to kiss his waterlogged curls. His brother is so beautiful like this. Pliant and trusting in his arms. 

He will never get enough of this. 

It’s nice that they can do this here, out in the sun – so far away from the hustle and bustle of London where no one would notice them. His brother nuzzles his face fondly against Mycroft’s neck – which bears a small collection of fading hickeys. Perhaps it’s unwise to mark each other like this where everyone could see the signs of mutual possessiveness, but Mycroft is past caring. It’s not like anyone would notice or recognize him outside of his usual three-piece suits. 

“I dread it. Going back tomorrow.” Sherlock whispers. “Going back to the way things were.”

“I do too.” Mycroft admits frankly. “But we will see each other more often. I promise. It won’t be the same as it was. It can never be after this. You can come stay the night at mine as often as you’d like. Fortunately for the most part, my job keeps regular hours. And we will sneak away for the weekends. If not the countryside, then across the channel. It will be okay, darling mine.” 

Mycroft sounds so sure and so earnest that Sherlock can believe at this very moment that things would be alright. They would both fight to make this last. He thrills at the endearment and he asks a moment later, looking meaningfully towards the ocean past the arch. 

“Shall we?” 

Without another word, they swim towards the rocks and into the world that lies beyond the arch, following the terns soaring high above them out to sea.

* * *

**Two Christmases Later:**

Lord Hastings (or rather Morty as he prefers to be called, or the ‘derelict old man’ as the latest generation of his family enjoys calling him ever so fondly) is back in the Holmesian side of the family. He hadn’t been here since Rudy’s death, unable to bear the ghosts of past happiness. Siger’s wife, Violet, is such a delightful dear, capable of churning out the most marvellous of culinary delights during the Christmas holidays. He had almost forgotten, he muses ruefully, helping himself happily to some reuben egg rolls on a side table. 

Things haven’t changed much since he’s been away, aside from the bounties of real mistletoe that Violet seems to delight in secreting everywhere catching every poor soul in the house unawares. He had been personally trapped under those silly plant clippings with the ghastly Cousin Eloise at least seven times now, so he’s made a point to memorize the hiding spots of all of this festive nonsense and avoid them like the plague they were. Fortunately, most of the family rabble had left after dinner on Christmas Eve, so it’s just him, Violet, Siger and their sons. 

“Woof, ruff, ruff – arf!” 

Oh, and the dog. A large Belgian Tervuren barely out of puppyhood. Named Arthur. Morty tsks, he’s a big believer of not giving human names to pets. Arthur dashes across the drawing room and seconds later, the younger son – Sherlock – comes chasing after the dog. The dog is a mischievous menace of a creature, disturbing the sensibilities of some of the snootier family members the day before. Morty had never laughed so hard when the pup had run off with an indignant Cousin Xerxes’ wig while everyone had been dressing up before the traditional ‘black tie’ dinner. He must be Sherlock’s dog, but he’s seen Mycroft petting and talking fondly to Arthur – giving orders that Arthur obeys immediately. 

Hm… strange. 

And he hasn’t seen the two brothers in the same room until dinner the night before, where Sherlock and Mycroft had their usual bickering session early in the meal. Morty had tuned them out as it happens every time preferring to focus his attention onto the Christmas feast itself. Rudy would be disappointed though, Morty reflects. The brothers had been so close when they had been young and they had treated them to many a sublime dance over the holidays. Perhaps for old Rudy’s sake, he would ask them to indulge the ‘derelict old man’ for reasons of nostalgia. Mycroft wouldn’t dare refuse considering that it had been both him and Rudy who had set him up for success during his Oxford days with the right guidance and connections, but Sherlock… Ah. Always the wildcard! 

Speak of the devil! Mycroft comes in with a book in hand. _Pet Sematary._ Delightful reading for the holidays – but a drastic improvement on the wrinkly and dry nature of Cousin Eloise’s lips! 

“Oh, Uncle Morty!” Mycroft looks up just as he had been about to exit the room. “I didn’t realize that you were here.”

“Ah, as you get older, my dear boy – it becomes quite easy to blend in with the wallpaper.” 

“Perhaps.” Mycroft inclines his head politely. “I am surprised you came for Christmas.”

“I can’t keep letting myself be dragged down by the past. Rudy wouldn’t have it.”

“No, I guess not.”

“I am surprised you aren’t tottering about on Uncle Rudy’s high heels!” Sherlock had returned to the room sans dog. His words are said in his usual irreverent manner. “We missed the annual drag show.” 

“Ha.” Morty snorts. “Those heels would probably make me look fat.”

“It’s too late anyhow.” Sherlock is in fine form. “Mummy has gotten to you first. The only person who ate more than you yesterday was Mycroft.” 

Morty catches the eye roll from Mycroft. “No, I am sure that was your Aunt Eloise –”

“No, she did go home heavier, but that’s because she has a penchant for Mummy’s best silverware.” 

“Sherlock!” Mycroft says warningly.

“What?! There was a spoon missing this morning!” Sherlock remarks innocently. “I was there when Mummy was washing up and counting the cutlery!”

Hm… something doesn’t add up. Mycroft isn’t actually offended by anything Sherlock says – more amused than anything. And that side-glance that Sherlock had just given his brother, as if checking to make sure he hasn’t gone too far. Morty might be a ‘derelict old man’ but he knows how to add one and one to make two. 

“I was wondering if you two would do an old man a favour.” 

“Both of us?” Sherlock inquires suspiciously.

“Of course.” Mycroft supplies. 

“I was wondering if you two would dance for me. Like the old days. Rudy did so love watching you two. As did I.” 

The response is not what Morty expects. 

Sherlock looks withdrawn and quiet, while Mycroft simply looks thoughtful. He had expected an outright passionate refusal from Sherlock, and a diplomatic response from Mycroft. 

What is going on in their complicated young heads? Morty ponders. 

He doesn’t know what had split the two brothers up in the first place, but perhaps dance had been a part of it… Maybe, a dance would remind them of the old days, and bring them together once more. Rudy would like that. He had always been a closet romantic despite his love for the shocking and the scandalous. And Morty would love it, because he had always been a sucker for a happy ending.

Shockingly, it is Mycroft who walks away first. Not to leave the room, but to sit on one of the plush armchairs in a cozy corner. He crosses his legs and begins to read his book. Sherlock’s eyes seem to widen at this new development, but his expression seems to soften with some kind of understanding that Morty does not have. 

Morty is bewildered. But somehow, his old instincts tell him to blend in with the wallpaper and exercise the old ‘watch and wait’. There is something critical happening here. 

Sherlock takes a deep breath and walks toward his brother. There is something sad in his entire demeanour – and Morty just stands and wonders. 

Sherlock taps his brother on the shoulder. Mycroft drops his book and looks up. Their shared gaze seems to linger just a tad too long, but before Morty could think upon it further, Sherlock holds out his hand in invitation. Mycroft puts the book down on the armrest, forgetting to bookmark his page, but Morty has a feeling that not a word in the book had actually been read during the minute or so he had sat down in that chair. The strains of _Careless Whisper_ play from someone’s phone. 

Within the next beat, Sherlock is in Mycroft’s arms and they are doing a slow foxtrot walk – seemingly to float across the empty space in the spacious centre of the drawing room as if they’ve been dancing here for years. 

As if they had never stopped. 

Mycroft had always been an excellent, sound lead – but Sherlock… is breathtaking. Put the two of them together, and it is art of the supreme sort that makes one forget art. 

Morty feels like he’s been transported years back. To when Rudy had still been hale and healthy. To when a much younger Mycroft and Sherlock had taken command of the drawing room, dancing with a lightness and innocence that Rudy had been so certain wouldn’t stay that way. 

Yet, it’s not quite the same. The way Sherlock arches into his brother’s touch and body. The way Mycroft looks at his brother. The way Mycroft’s hand is too low down on Sherlock’s back for it to be proper for any form of dance. And then the way Sherlock’s arms tenderly wrap around Mycroft’s shoulders just after _Pain is all you’ll find_ as if to comfort his brother. 

Their moves effortlessly transition to a more tango-like style at the chorus.

***

_I'm never gonna dance again_

_Guilty feet have got no rhythm_

_Though it's easy to pretend_

_I know you're not a fool_

_I should've known better than to cheat a friend_

_And waste the chance that I'd been given_

_So I'm never gonna dance again_

_The way I danced with you, ohh_

***

The two of them are so close that it’s unmistakable – 

Oh. He notices at this moment that he isn’t the only audience member intruding upon this special moment. Violet is watching from the doorway connected to the dining room. There’s a satisfied smile on her face. As quietly as he can, he slowly walks over to where Mummy Holmes stands, even though he is sure a train could crash next door and neither brother would notice anything was amiss, as lost as they both were in their private little world. 

“They danced to this exact song when they were here last year.” Violet offers. “We had a private gathering that Christmas. Just immediate family. The four of us.”

“Oh.” Is all what Morty could offer. He then adds, curious. “So you…”

“Know? Of course I do. Why did you think there are so many pieces of mistletoe lying around? There was some collateral damage, but I thought it was worth it. To give them a little bit of happiness.”

Morty shakes his head at her. Cunning woman!

He _was_ the collateral damage! 

Instead he says. “Rudy would be pleased.”

“You weren’t there during the last summer Mycroft came home from school. I knew then. Of course it took me some time to come to terms with it. Years actually. Especially with the idea that there won’t be any grandchildren. And then on that last night – Mycroft flat out rejected his brother.” Before Morty could ask for clarification – Violet adds. “To dance. And it hurt Sherlock very much. I didn’t say anything, but perhaps I should have done something to comfort my youngest. Not that I think it would have helped. Not at that age.”

Ah. That explains much. He had known by the choice of song that this had been a planned event. He had always had that feeling that Mycroft had known more about the profound relationship between Rudy and himself than he had let on. To be fair, Rudy and he were not brothers or even first cousins. They were second cousins. Alas, it was still close enough to be scandalous and ruinous for both of their careers back in the day. Not to mention the whole same-sex thing! 

Ah, the law, the times and the public are such fickle things.

He looks up again. The song had been over for several minutes, but Mycroft and Sherlock are still holding onto each other. The way Sherlock’s arms are clinging around his brother’s shoulders for dear life seem to beg _‘please don’t leave me, please don’t ever let me go’_ while Mycroft has one hand resting supportively against Sherlock’s back, and the other buried in Sherlock’s curls. Mycroft’s lips are moving and from here Morty could read the tender nothings and reassurance that fall from them. 

Oh, he knows a little something about the ardent nature of Holmeses. 

Suddenly feeling like a dirty old voyeur, Morty takes Violet’s hand and inquires. “Can I assist you with dinner?”

Violet chuckles, leading him out of the room. “You just want to pilfer the goods!”

“Quality control I would say – ouch!”

***

It is a frigid late evening walk to the shore. Arthur bounds in front of them, his tail wagging just as Redbeard’s had back in the day. The moon shines brightly, lighting the way through the trees. Mycroft holds Sherlock’s hand as they saunter. There’s something timeless about tracing the unpaved paths that their younger selves had trod time and time again. It was at the shore here when Mycroft’s feelings had run deeper than brotherly, and it had taken him months to realize that. 

For the most part, Sherlock lives with him now – spending only enough time at Baker Street to throw off any suspicions. They’ve done a good job for the most part – only Mrs. Hudson had her suspicions that Sherlock was seeing someone and that it was serious but the rest of Sherlock’s goldfish had nary a clue. 

When the forest gives way to the cliffs overlooking the Bristol Channel, Mycroft turns to his brother. “I love you.” He says huskily, dipping down to kiss his wind-chapped lips – tasting the hints of the Italian Christmas pudding cake that Mummy had baked especially for Uncle Morty’s sweet tooth.

Sherlock kisses him back, and it’s so sweet, despite them being together for a year and then some. Mycroft deepens it, using his hand to guide Sherlock’s head. 

When they break – breathless, Sherlock whispers salaciously. “I know we just walked all the way over here, but now I want to go back and go tango in our childhood bed.” 

“Good Lord, Lock! You are insatiable.” Mycroft ducks down to kiss him again, briefly. “And you say this – now!?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer immediately, looking out toward the strip of shore down below where they had danced all those years ago. “You loved me then.” He says after a moment of reminiscence, revealing an observation that he had made during the night where they first made love. 

“I did. I didn’t know then. The summer before Redbeard passed. How did you –”

“The way you looked at me, My. It was the same way you look at me now. Like I made the night sky, and created the celestial bodies – the moon, the stars. Like I was… _everything._ The universe.” 

“Oh, Lock. You are everything. Sometimes I feel as if we are one and the same. And I cannot tell where I end and where you start. Not that it matters, mind you.”

“Mycroft.” Sherlock wraps his arms around him, and Mycroft places a hand against the small of his back. “When I went away, I kept feeling this sensation. Like I was missing something, and I didn’t know what it was. When I came back, I taught John how to dance, as I told you many times before. For the wedding I said. But that’s not the whole truth. I desperately wanted someone to dance with. Someone that could fill all the hollowed out spaces within me. I had hoped… that he would have been the one. He tried so hard to learn how to lead, but it was a hopeless case from the start. It was all so _wrong._ I was so disappointed, but I realized that I would have never come between John and Mary. It was a foolish, fanciful thought. A moment of madness. A fantasy. And – I had forgotten everything about you in my youth. How we danced! How you touched me! How we made love in our own innocent way without even knowing it! How we managed to make drawing rooms full of people forget to breathe with how we felt for each other! God. You were everything to me, and I forgot. You were oxygen. You were water. You were my sun and stars. The moon! You were essential! It hurt too much otherwise to remember. How I cried so bitterly that night! I didn’t understand what had changed. I didn’t understand why you had pushed me away! Why you were so cold and unfeeling that evening! What I had done wrong! And I blamed it on Redbeard’s death for years. I might have forgotten, but my body didn’t. It remembers how I could move. How I had moved. Under the right conditions. The right circumstances. The right touch.” Sherlock stops, panting as if he had run an entire marathon in record time, feeling a little embarrassed in terms of how readily everything had spilled out like this.

“Sherlock. Dearest.” Mycroft looks down at him. 

There is such agony in his eyes. Even more so than the pain that Sherlock had witnessed on that fateful night. Sherlock is forced to shut his eyes, feeling that same pain sympathetically rip through his own chest. So intense and raw that he feels that he could throw up everything right at this moment. 

Mycroft continues haltingly, his hands still supporting Sherlock. “How… could you ever forgive me? I left you. Unwillingly. But I did. I had to flee. You were too young. I was too young. I loved you. So much. I wanted you. Too much. You did nothing wrong! Brother mine. Perhaps I was a coward. Perhaps there would have been a better way. I never meant for things to be this way. To hurt you in such a fundamental manner. In our months that we’ve been together, I’ve never asked for your forgiveness. I know I do not deserve it. I wake up every day praying to every deity out there that you would still love me. Want me. That one day I would be deserving of your forgiveness. Your love. That I would remain the only one who has the privilege to touch you. God. Lock.” He sinks down to his knees, hugging his brother’s thighs tightly, letting his forehead rest against Sherlock’s hip. 

“Of course I forgive you, Mycroft. I forgave you the moment you took me to dance on the seashore that first night in Brighton. My. Brother. Please. Stand up. You were young too. I didn’t know how to deal with heartbreak. You didn’t know how to deal with loving me.” Sherlock replies. He then says softly, once Mycroft is standing next to him once more. “You are still all these things to me, My. Once upon a time, I crashed a wedding while I was being chased overseas, and the bride said as part of her vows ‘You are my sun and stars, the moon of my life.’. As you were and still _mine,_ Mycroft.” 

“Oh. Lock…” Mycroft looks as if he’s at the verge of tears. “Oh… Lock. I don’t deserve you. But I will take gladly what you offer me so freely. Your absolution. And of course, you are all of these things to me too. But, please – no more teaching other men how to dance, alright? I can’t stand it!”

“Of course not. Now, Mycroft – take me home and make love to me.”

Mycroft straightens up and whistles, calling Arthur to return from his adventures nearby. Their dog eagerly bounds toward them, and they head back. 

The enormous and suffocating burden that Mycroft had been carrying ever since that night in the drawing room for almost two decades had finally been lifted, and he feels free and happy in a way that he had never known. 

***

There is nothing like the desecration of a childhood bed. 

Sherlock sometimes wonders how things would have gone, had Mycroft not fled from his life on that fateful night. Would they have made love on Mycroft’s bed? It had to be Mycroft’s bed, as Sherlock had been sleeping in his brother’s bed ever since he had been a toddler capable of expressing such a preference. Even when Mycroft had eventually left for school, Sherlock had slept in his brother’s bed – missing him with every fibre of his being. 

It was only when Mycroft had rejected him, had he started a serious relationship with his own bed. Would their sex have been tender? Or passionately rough? Or both? As it had happened on their real first night together. Or clumsy? Like many a first fumble? Probably not, considering how in tune they both were in terms of physicality with each other then. And how amazing their first night actually had been! Did Mycroft ever fantasize about having sex with Sherlock on this very bed back in the day? 

Their lips meet for the tenderest of kisses. Hands savour expensive fabrics before discarding them with care. Mycroft’s fingers are tracing Sherlock’s naked form ever so carefully, mapping out the anatomy that he had done so many times before. Yet, it always feels like Mycroft is touching and exploring him for the first time and the last time. His touch elicits the most wonderful of shivers, and Sherlock immediately follows – leaning into his caresses, physically begging, pleading for more. 

Like dancing, Sherlock knows the significance of every touch and every look that Mycroft gives him. He interprets _‘I love you’, ‘Thank you for forgiving me’, ‘Thank you for letting me love you’,_ and _‘Thank you for letting me dance with you again.’._

Sherlock wantonly spreads his legs when Mycroft directs him to, and he shudders when lubricated fingers tenderly spread him, preparing him for that moment of penetration. It’s not really needed anymore considering how frequently Sherlock ends up on this side of things in sex, but they both love any excuse to shower each other with affection. Foreplay. 

A pillow gets shoved under Sherlock’s bum, and he sighs when Mycroft covers his face in kisses, each one sending frissons down his nerves, adding to the fires of arousal down below. His brother kisses his way down, taking time to tease his sensitive nipples into hard peaks, and following the treasure trail from his navel to his partially erect and weeping cock. Soon, he feels that thick cockhead nudge at his hole, and he groans with pleasure when his brother enters him, stretching him so exquisitely. Mycroft’s eyes are looking into his own, always looking to make sure Sherlock is comfortable even though they’ve done this too many times to count. There is joy as his brother thrusts into him in a comfortable tempo, and another nonverbal conversation of sorts commences.

_‘Oh, My, you feel so good. More.’_

_‘Lock. Darling. I love you. God, how I love you.’_

_‘I love you. Mycroft, how could you ever doubt that? You are so beautiful.’_

Mycroft had given him a look of skepticism, but Sherlock knows one day he will convince him of this fact. 

_‘You are delusional, but you took me back, so I cannot complain.’_

“God, more.” 

Sherlock starts thrusting back against Mycroft’s strokes, and they work in tandem to work toward what they both want. Usually Sherlock prefers Mycroft to lead, just as Mycroft likes to be responsible for all of little brother’s pleasures and would prefer Sherlock to yield, but today, there is a more balanced approach being employed – with Mycroft feeling more vulnerable than he usually did. Mycroft leans over to cover his brother’s lips in kisses. 

Sherlock can’t help feeling that every dance they have together aren’t separate entities, but rather one long dance that had started the day he had been born, and will end when one of them passes into the unknown beyond. 

The first dance and the last dance are one and the same. 

Mycroft readjusts his position, just as Sherlock is about to reach for his own cock – but Sherlock puts his hand back on Mycroft’s neck when he meets his eyes again – knowing that his brother intends for him to come with his prick alone. The new angle rubs him in all the perfect ways, and Mycroft could read this in Sherlock’s moans and the way his body seems to tremble and shake as Sherlock hurtles perilously towards orgasm. Mycroft holds on to Sherlock tightly for leverage, as he makes his last few thrusts count – and Sherlock gasps Mycroft’s name aloud, his hard needy cock letting go of its seed, spilling it between them, while Mycroft continues to fuck him through his orgasm before spurting his own cum deep within him – a move that really never gets old. 

Sherlock reaches up to stroke Mycroft’s thinning hair when Mycroft collapses, panting heavily – his breath hot against Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock feels the warmth of love and adoration swell in his chest as he gazes upon his beloved’s face, and he will make sure that he covers his brother in his touch – in his caresses and kisses before they fall asleep tonight, knowing intrinsically that this is what Mycroft needs from him right now. 

He knows it’s natural for Mycroft to want to do all the heavy lifting, but Sherlock had been slowly learning over the past year or so how to take care of his brother – to show him that he is truly the one and only partner that Sherlock needs in his life. And it had made him sorrowful that it had taken such a great confession out of himself to make Mycroft open up about his need for forgiveness despite them being involved in a romantic relationship for over a year. He continues to run his fingers against Mycroft’s scalp and face, and his brother hums contentedly. 

“Sometimes, My – you have to tell me explicitly what you need.” Sherlock whispers. “Be it forgiveness, space, me to do the laundry – I don’t know. I don’t want you to suffer alone. Ever. Even on days where I might be pissed off or annoyed at you.”

“I know, Lock. It’s hard. We’ve both been alone for too long. Separated. And it’s hard too, for me to accept you looking after me sometimes.” Mycroft admits. 

“It’s a work in progress. And we do have a tendency to complicate the simplest of principles.” Sherlock says with a bit of needed levity.

“True. And I think I need to hear your forgiveness a few more times.” His brother says tentatively.

“Of course, Mycroft. I will tell you every single day if you need me to.”

“Thank you, dearest mine. I love you so…” Mycroft nuzzles gratefully at Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock sighs at the touch. 

“This has been the hardest dance to learn.” Sherlock says conversationally a minute later, even though he knows they really ought to go into the shower and wash their sticky selves. 

“I concur, but it’s worth it, isn’t it?” Mycroft looks up at him with an adoring smile, and Sherlock can’t resist no longer and bends his neck awkwardly to kiss him. 

“Always, brother mine.” Sherlock replies breathlessly when they part, knowing intrinsically that he would never tire of dancing through life with his brother – his rediscovered sun and stars, his other half – regardless of what tumultuous seas they may encounter along the way. 

**🌟~FIN~🌟**


End file.
